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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101520">the phantom of manhattan</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavitanuova/pseuds/lavitanuova'>lavitanuova</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canonical Character Death, Gen, Ghosts, One Shot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:33:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>771</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101520</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavitanuova/pseuds/lavitanuova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And for me, that was the final and truly unbearable tragedy: Like all the innumerable dead, he'd once and for all been demoted from haunted to haunter.<br/>- the fault in our stars, john green</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the phantom of manhattan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>i.</strong> <br/>they say there's a woman who died just off the coast of brooklyn, almost a hundred years ago. it's a story fit for a soap opera, or at least the version that's been passed down through the years. they say she was a noble lady from a far-off land, murdered by her lover's jealous mistress. her name's been dragged out to sea with the waves, but her music still lingers, and they say if you go out on the pier after midnight, you can still hear her sing, a siren's voice luring you into the deep.</p><p>they say she wears a long blue dress.</p><p><strong>ii.</strong><br/>he's only been working at this beach for a few weeks, but joseph's heard all the tales about the lady in blue. <em>she drives people to insanity. she's come back for vengeance on her murderer. she wasn't actually murdered by the mistress, she was murdered by her husband because she was cheating on him.</em> it's not until he's stuck in a lazy, late-night shift, the wind and the waves the only sound, that he actually meets her.</p><p>well, it's not that accurate. he hears her, first, before he meets her. someone's singing, far off in the distance, from somewhere across the sea. joseph drops his phone, game of candy crush abandoned. he doesn't understand the song, he doesn't speak a word of french, but it sounds...sad? it's a mourning song, it's an requiem. it's the most beautiful thing i've ever heard, he thinks, and it really is. </p><p>but, as he remembers, it's also possibly the most dangerous thing he's ever heard. he crushes the instinct to run outside and find her, and plugs his earphones in like a modern odysseus. when he takes out his earphones a few minutes later, it's like she was never there at all.</p><p><strong>iii.</strong><br/><em>i miss you,</em> a young boy tells the waves. he's lost and alone in a foreign land. his papa doesn't talk to him (but again, when has he ever?) and his father, well, he's trying his best, but parenthood sits strangely on him. he just wants his mother, and if he closes his eyes he can picture her, lady of lace and song, always not-quite-there, already halfway ghostly at thirty-five. he tries to hear her. he tries to feel her. he feels nothing but the sand between his toes and the cold grey tide sweeping everything away.</p><p><strong>iv.</strong><br/>there's a legend, in the theatre spheres, of a great opera singer from the turn of the twentieth century. the newspaper reports say she had the most beautiful voice, clear as daylight. when she sang, it was though the angels had come down to earth to bless her. she was gorgeous, too, skin like a porcelain doll's, eyes like sapphire, lips ruby-red. there were mobs at the stage doors to greet her. every performance she was in was sold out. </p><p>and yet, she was always surrounded by mystery. she'd appeared for the first time at a gala, enchanting the people of paris, but after that her career was pockmarked by scandal. the opera suffered a strange series of misfortunes, and after a particularly disastrous one, she'd retired from the theatre to become the wife of a nobleman.</p><p>there were never any recordings of her- a treasure lost to the past, like the library of alexandria. every person who'd have heard her sing is long dead.</p><p><strong>v.</strong><br/>antoniette giry walks through the charred and destroyed ruins of an american amusement park. she ascends a pier, gas lanterns flickering, the lights of the roller-coasters in the background extinguished. the wood feels unsteady beneath her feet, as if it could disintegrate into nothingness any second. there's the faintest voice, and when antoniette looks up, she can see the ghost. the blue lights wash her out, but her presence is undeniable, and so too is the burgundy stain on her dress. (peacock feathers- the evil eye- was there any part of that aria that didn't tempt fate?)</p><p><em>i buried my only daughter last week,</em> antoniette says.<em> i thought you would like to know that.</em></p><p>the lady in blue shakes her head. there's an expression on her face that antoniette can't quite place. when she finally speaks, it's soft and melodic and might perhaps be nothing more than the rushing of the waves and wind.<em> please, just let me speak. listen to me.</em></p><p>and for what seems like the first time in years- someone listens to christine daae.</p><p>perhaps no one will again.</p><p><strong>iv.</strong><br/>she's still there, even today. </p><p>can you feel her?<br/>can you hear her?</p><p>most importantly: will you listen?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>no editing we die like men</p></blockquote></div></div>
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